There are moments when I feel that being a dreamer (or artist, or writer, or really, God lover at all) is like being a bloodhound. Floppy ears, saggy face, sad eyes, snuffling and all. There I go, sniffing the holy out amidst the roughage and roots of the everyday. Nose to the ground, tripping along in a mad lurch after any sign, oblivious to anything but that scent of faint transcendence. Then off in a baying run after this fleet-footed beauty, this eternity I have never actually seen, and never quite seem to catch. And yet, for one glimpse of which I am willing to run my poor, panting soul to death. Not a particularly elegant or convenient way of being. All too true though, if you ask me. Good grief. Saturdays sometimes have this affect on me.